


Don't Let the Days Go By

by dollylux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Barebacking, Bottom Dean, M/M, Post-Purgatory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Season/Series 08, Spit As Lube, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2179476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is back from Purgatory, but Purgatory won't leave him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let the Days Go By

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Niightmoves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niightmoves/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Denise! <3

He had been a nightmare in Purgatory. He had been the one feared, the one they whispered about when the sky darkened without a sun to set, when the night settled in like a thousand voices around this strange earth. He had been the legend, the one the fangs and claws told stories about that were not exaggerated. 

In life, on Earth, Dean had been a savior, and there in the silvery wait of Purgatory, he was a killer. 

Dean didn’t have the comfort of those stories, the one where he was the villain when the day slowed to a weary crawl, when the sky was black as pitch and he would find a tree to collapse back against, keeping his eyes closed against the ruby red glimmer of eyes that watched him from the trees, waiting for him to drop his guard, waiting for a second of weakness. 

He would stay there, trembling in the darkness, the day’s blood dripping from his hands, his cracked lips parted to pant in exhaustion. He would not sleep.

In those hours, he would try and fail to recall the colors of Sam’s eyes, the scent and taste of his mouth, the pitch of his real laugh. There was no room for softness in Purgatory, not even in the secret corners of his mind.

One year.

One year he had been there, had been that.

Now, right now, he’s lying in a motel bed in Michigan, the air conditioner on 68 degrees, both locks on the door latched, the blankets covering him freshly laundered with cheap detergent. The luxury of it, the thoughtless indulgence of it, is unfathomable to him.

Sam is five feet away in the other bed, one arm and one foot hanging off the mattress, dangling over the floor, and his hair is a wild nest of soft on the pillow. Dean wants to remember him so badly, wants to crawl into the bed with him and burrow, push until he can recall everything about Sam, from the tips of his fingers to his deepest insides.

It’s an indulgence so absolute that it feels unobtainable now.

His hand is clutching the demon knife under his pillow, ears trained on the sounds outside, tracking and recording each one like a machine: a drunken girl laughing, walking with a man wearing cowboy boots, and they disappear into a room two doors down; the thunk-clunk of a can of soda hitting the bottom of the dispenser in the machine across the parking lot; and three cars have pulled in since Sam started snoring an hour ago, two trucks and one mid-sized car, the car with a busted headlight. The air smells of barbeque, of smoke and cooking meat, of cheap beer from cans. He hasn’t eaten in days, and the smell of it doesn’t arouse the slightest hunger in him.

Sam is awake now.

“Dean?”

Dean tenses, tightens his hand around the blade, his eyes growing fierce in the dark, like he can see straight through it and catch Sam’s eyes. He can’t, but he feels them on him, feels their warmth. And he almost remembers how Sam feels, how he really feels.

He doesn’t answer.

“Is something wrong?” Sam sits up, his blankets falling away to reveal his bare chest, leaner than the last time Dean touched it with his bare hands, darker than it had been one year ago, when Dean knew Sam with his hands and his mouth and his heart. Sam’s eyes glint in the dark, and Dean shivers, imagines for a moment that they’re glowing red and waiting.

“Go back to sleep,” he finally grits out, trying to keep the shake out of his voice.

There’s a pause between them, a weighted beat and then another and Sam is pushing the covers back and sitting up completely now, everything in him trained toward Dean, and Dean wants him here, right here, so badly that he can’t breathe.

“Sammy, damnit, just go back to sleep. Leave it.” His voice is gruff, the Marine-low warning tone like the ghost of John, and his free hand clutches at the blankets at his chest just for something to hold onto. 

“Dean, you’re shaking,” Sam murmurs, slipping out of the bed and taking the steps between them to sit down beside Dean on his bed, and Dean has to close his eyes, can’t look at him or he’ll fly apart. 

He closes his eyes and he’s back There again, and everything is grey, is black and white and shadow. He listens for the snarls of his prey, of his hunters, goes utterly still to try and hear them.

He’s back there and it’s nothing like Hell, nothing at all. Hell was chaos, was a blur of ruin, of blood-choking despair, of being burned alive from within. Purgatory is purity, is rules and the chase and the music of heartbeats and the steady drip of blood from a blade. It’s a relief of order and rhythm and cold.

A hand touches him, slides along his scruffy cheek, and he’s back, he’s away, he’s curling in on himself and he’s terrified of the burn of tears behind his closed eyelids. 

“You don’t have to, Sammy,” he whispers, his voice trembling and razor thin, like it could break in half if he drew a breath too fast. “Y-You. You don’t--”

“Dean, shh,” Sam whispers, and Dean’s whole world is suddenly warmth, is pure comfort and soft because Sam is moving to spread out beside him, against him, and there are two hands on him now, cupping his face. Sam’s fingers are wet with his tears but Dean can’t stop, he can’t help them, can’t keep them in. 

Dean clings to the knife, to his blankets, his chest jumping in harsh little sobs that sound hysterical, terrified. His head moves with Sam’s hands because it always has, and his lips part when they’re kissed. Sam’s tongue soothes over them, licking into the broken skin of Dean’s mouth, sucking on each lip until they both taste of blood to them both.

One year. It’s been one year since he’s had this, had him, and Dean doesn’t think he’ll survive it this time.

“I can’t st-stay here,” Dean manages against Sam’s mouth, his voice leaving in shivering gasps that Sam kisses at. “I can’t stop going ba-back there. It’s there when I close my eyes. Th-they’re always there, waiting for me. They won’t let me st-stay here. With you.”

“What if I want you here more than they do?” Sam’s words burn over his tongue, like maybe they’re truths, like maybe he really means them. Like he knows the monsters and their hunger for Dean, and he knows that his own hunger is more. “What if I won’t let them keep you?”

“Keep me,” Dean repeats, mindless, lost in a sea of soft blankets and Sam’s fingers splayed on his cheeks and his voice so, so tender and drifting right down Dean’s throat, like it wants to stay. “Keep me here. Keep me with you.”

They stopped taking their clothes off to fuck years ago, and one year lost between them doesn’t change that. Sam pulls Dean’s underwear down from his ass and off and shoves his own down just enough to let his dick slap full and hard against Dean’s ass, the heat pulsing from it so hot that it feels alive.

He spreads his legs and Sam slips between them, his skin like spun silk over the anatomy lesson of his body, all those thick, hungry cords of muscles moving like liquid under Dean’s hand when he sweeps his palm up Sam’s spine and tangles his fingers into the softness of Sam’s hair and pulls him down to latch onto his mouth again. He keeps his right hand around the blade, his fingers flexing around it like they want to touch Sam instead of the carved bone of the knife handle, like every single part of him needs to be caught up in Sam’s warmth.

“Stay here with me,” Sam pants against his lips, his hand busy between their bodies, spit-slicked fingers nudging clumsily at Dean’s body like they forgot how before they invade, two fingertips spreading apart Dean’s insides to make room for the dripping cockhead that’s following close behind, impatient and needing the tight clutch that Dean keeps in his body.

Sam’s cock burns into him like a blade sinking into flesh, and he shakes under him when Sam roots himself inside just long enough to gasp, and then he’s moving. 

Their bodies find a rhythm together without a single thought, without a missed beat, like they had been moving together all along before they even touched. Sam is tearing up his sore insides, is fucking him open with the starved impatience of his thrusts, with the punch of his dick into places inside of Dean that Dean had simply forgotten existed. Like he only exists under Sam’s hands, on his tongue, around his thick cock.

“I’ve just missed you so much,” Sam sobs, and it’s so sudden that it jars Dean, makes his eyes blink open and Sam is above him, sweat sliding down his face, damp hair stuck to his flushed cheeks. His little brother, his beautiful brother. _Sammy._

He spreads his legs even more for him, the insides of his thighs catching on the jut of Sam’s hipbones, getting bruised by them because Sam is fucking him brutally now, like he’s begging for forgiveness, like he’s trying to melt them together. He lifts the hand still holding the knife and wraps it with the other one around Sam’s neck, clinging to him, holding on like he never left, like there was never a night between now and the last time they did this, were this close.

When Sam comes, he falls apart, broken sobs shattering against Dean’s quiet mouth, his whole body straining down on and up into Dean, pressing with obsessive violence like he wants _in_ , like every single part of him wants to fit itself inside of Dean. His come is scalding hot, fire all through Dean’s torn guts, and it hurts like relief. 

“Dean, you’re my life. I love you, you’re my entire life,” he whispers between kisses, their bodies locked together because Sam won’t leave him, he’s throbbing and pulsing deep inside of Dean and Dean knows he will wake up with Sam still right there, keeping him loose and open and aching.

Dean closes his eyes again, bites down on his lip when he feels a big hand wrap around his dick, the first time in what feels like days uncountable, an eternity. But it’s here now. Sam’s here now.

The stroke is wet, and Dean can smell that it’s Sam’s come easing the way. He clutches at Sam’s cock with his ass, clenching to feel the fullness, to remind himself how deep he is. He gasps, lets his lip go, and Sam draws it into his own mouth, sucking on it while Dean pants.

“Yeah, Dean,” he mumbles, jacking Dean’s cock so perfect, with just the right twist and tightness and Dean is working his hips, fucking up into Sam’s hand and using Sam’s dick to nudge at his prostate. “God, Dean, come on my dick. Come all over my dick.”

Dean nods, eyes rolling back in his head as he shakes apart on Sam’s cock, come gushing out of him in relieved, thick loads, the knife blade pressing into Sam’s back where Dean’s got it clutched, breaking skin.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t let any of them out of the frightened trap of his throat, because he’s learned to be quiet, learned silence. Sam holds him so tight it hurts, holds him so completely that it bends bone, that it bruises their skin. 

Sam doesn’t let go, just sinks further down on top of Dean, trapping him between the heavy warmth of his body and the tired mattress. He kisses at Dean’s face, whispers of kisses that calm Dean a little, somehow. And when Sam tucks his face into Dean’s neck, nudges his nose right up against that spot on Dean’s neck that has been Sam’s favorite place forever, since they were small, Dean’s hand finally loosens around the knife, lets it fall with a thump to the floor, forgotten.

When Dean closes his eyes again, he sees nothing but a quiet dark. And he sleeps.


End file.
